


twenty-one

by stubbleglitter (maggie)



Category: NSYNC
Genre: Gangbang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-31
Updated: 2002-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/stubbleglitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>call it tradition, call it what you like; just make sure you're there when justin turns twenty-one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	twenty-one

You've waited a long, impatient time for this.

In a way, you've waited for twenty-one years. In another, more accurate way, you've waited for five years, because you first started thinking about it when JC turned twenty-one all the way over in Germany and unexpectedly started to _slink_.

You watched him then, and you felt a nasty petulant sort of envy, because you in your baggy tracksuits and tightly-curled hair, you were something altogether different and unripe green and nearly ugly. Even with his awful rabbit-teeth and that funny spot just over his right ear where his hair didn't grow in right, JC had..._something_. Everybody could see it. And you wanted that for yourself.

By the time Joey turned twenty-one, things were starting to really get big for all of you. The album had done great in Europe, and it was time to take over at home. And even though everything was wild and up in the air and there were hints of what it was going to be like, if everything went well, Joey unexpectedly started to _settle_.

You noticed the way he seemed so at ease all the time, strange and incomprehensible to you in your tight-muscled body that was growing in all the right places and seemed so fucking uninhabitable sometimes, when it was late or when you were tired or feeling left-out. Joey was getting bigger and heavier and just got more and more _right_ no matter how much he weighed, and that kind of pissed you off so you took solace in just how terrible Lance looked. Always had looked, always would.

But then you made it. All of you, you made it and you fucking _exploded_ and everybody wanted you, wanted to see you dance and hear you sing and invite you for interviews and some secretly wanted to have sex with you, and at first it was strange and overwhelming but you got used to it. When you got your highschool diploma presented to you onstage in front of screeching girls who only knew you from their Bop posters, you thought maybe you got used to it too quickly. But there was nothing that could be done about it, and so you all kept going.

And you were going strong when Lance turned twenty-one, a hot night in New Orleans, and unexpectedly started to _simmer_.

That fucked you off the most out of all of them, because, really--JC, Joey, they were a lot older anyway and so you didn't feel like you had to compete with them so much, but Lance? Lance was supposed to stay awkward and shy and albino-ugly for the rest of his life, for _ever_, and now here he was all golden and feral and legal, and he was more a part of it than you were. Even with your popstar girlfriend and your solo projects and all the people all over the whole goddamn world who wanted to fuck you, you weren't a part of it.

But now it's your turn. It's your time. And you're gonna fucking _starburst_.

...

You could _kill_ that girl on TRL for asking what's the first thing you're gonna do on your birthday. Because Chris says, "I know what the first thing we're gonna **make** him do is," and you know the camera's right on your face so you keep yourself from looking any particular way and you almost bless Carson for interrupting with one of his stupid asides so you have a moment to compose yourself. Joey laughs, knowing, an unworded answer to what Chris is insinuating, and Lance doesn't help when he murmurs, "He might not remember, that day...." and JC's smiling and sort-of laughing, but not quite.

"Honestly?" you finally manage, staring at the girl and hoping that she can feel your resentment. "I haven't actually thought about it."

By the time Carson moves on, you're licking your lips nervously and hoping nobody caught on to how antsy that question made you. But Chris folds his arms and hardly takes his eyes off you for the rest of the spot, and you find you can't _wait_ until this whole damn thing is over. Something deep inside you whispers warningly, telling you that's the wrong way to feel, you've been wanting this forever, you should enjoy it. You don't listen. That voice has been getting weaker every year.

...

When it finally comes, you're in the Bahamas. You had to be somewhere special, after all, and the Bahamas--according to travel agents and movies and rich people--are somewhere special.

Everyone is there. And you get drunk. You've done it before, but now you're allowed to. You were allowed to before, but quietly. Sometimes the way you have to live really screws you up. It's a lot to remember.

Nothing happens. You don't know what you were expecting, exactly--or maybe you do, but you haven't yet admitted it to yourself except in frantic needy masturbatory spurts--and now it's nothing. You go to bed alone, wasted and wondering.

It sucks when you cry yourself to sleep on your twenty-first birthday.

...

They wake you up gently, JC sitting on the bed and tugging at your vaguely-brittle newly-gold hair. The booze has worn off enough for you to be aware of what's going on but muggy around the edges. It all gets clearer when JC leans down and kisses you, his mouth tasting like clean white wine.

He gets up too soon and you're left gasping, but then Lance is there and your gasps disappear into his soft tongue, soft and sweet like white frosting and you sit up so you can wrap your arms around him. Lance is warm and comforting and you're glad he's not ugly anymore. That's a mean thing to think, but you pride yourself on being honest when it's not for the cameras, and you're glad Lance isn't ugly anymore.

Neither of you says anything, because you both know that it's too delicate. You haven't known each other all that well for ages, now, and with Lance rubbing your sides with his small girlish fingers you realize that you've missed him and you don't always recognize him anymore. Grimacing, you make to push him down into the bed, intent on finding out who is is and making sure that he knows who you are, but Lance shakes his head mutely, flashes of burnished gold, and bears down on you instead.

You understand, and even though a part of you wants to fight, a more desperate part of you wants to give in.

You know it's completely unromantic, but all you can think of when Lance eventually pushes into you is that it hurts like a motherfucker. You open your mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a cracked sort of noise that's muffled against the side of Lance's face, and you notice dazedly that the skin just in front of his ear feels like rose petals when you rub them against your nose. His body holds still for a moment, just a moment, and then moves again, and you wonder just when the hell Lance learned to use his body like this. Because now it's not hurting quite so much--which was what all the prep was for, you understand that, you're not dumb--and Lance is making deep noises that rumble through you, and up and out, alchemized by your body into your own gasps and hitches.

It's only when Lance shudders hard and spills burning hot inside you that your unfocused eyes start working again and you realize that the other three are in the room, and have been the whole time.

...

Joey is next and you laugh, a bit, because you think it's funny that they're ascending in seniority. That means Chris will be last, but he's probably fine with it because he told you once that in the opening credits for a movie, if they list everybody else first and finish of with "and..." and then your name, you're the most important person. So Chris will take it to mean that he's the most important person. And maybe he is.

But Joey's on top of you now, smiling kindly at you despite the heat in his eyes, and you can see now why women fall for him. _joe,_ you try, testing your voice out, and are relieved to hear him answer, _yeah, jup?_ in the most natural of ways. This won't change anything, his warm familiar voice tells you. At least, it won't change anything for the worse.

So you don't say anything else, just wrap your arms around his neck and swipe your tongue over your lips, eyes hooded and feeling bruised in a wonderful melting way. Joey smiles harder, sliding one arm under you until he can nest his hand at the nape of your neck, cradling your heavy head the way you've seen him hold Brianna's, and you hope it isn't perverted that you've drawn that conclusion while Joey's thrusting into you because the thought that he's holding you like you're something that precious almost makes you cry. There's a power behind those thrusts that you hadn't considered, and it makes your mouth fall open and your fingers clutch helplessly at Joey's shoulders as you pant and push against him.

You recall the way Lance did it to you, and you wonder how JC's gonna do it to you, and you're panting something that could be Joey's name when he comes, clutching you to his chest.

...

The room smells almost unbearably of sex, and you drag in great whooping breaths of it and throw your arms out across the bed so your fingers can hold on to the sides and remind you of where you are, who you are, how old you are.

JC.

You haven't even thought of JC as all that sexy before now. You've known him for so long that it's still a little weird, but from the way he's sliding his skinny hard body onto yours that opinion is becoming rapidly revised. Moaning, you raise your weary head to press against JC's mouth, sliding your hands along the sheets like you're making snow angels as he twines his long clever fingers in your damp hair. _mmmmm-hmmm_, JC hums, and you grin into his mouth because they guy just can't fucking stop singing, and you love that about him and always have.

_isn't anybody gonna blow me?_ you murmur plaintively, because your dick's crossing over from arousingly hard into painfully stiff now, and even though you're shimmying around like a shoal of minnows under JC it's not enough friction to bring you off.

_ohno no no_, JC says, and his voice is still dippy-sounding, still the same ol' JC you've always known. _no. you're gonna have to wait. till we're all through with you, honey._

A shiver scrapes its way up your spine and it suddenly makes sense to you how JC gets his way on so many things, because although you've heard him put his foot down before, you didn't know that he would do it in bed. And yet, it makes absolute crystal sense and you've always known, just not first-hand.

JC strokes your slick skin and hums while he moves in and out of you, thighs quivering against yours, and he sings nonsense things like _pretty pretty oh la la la hmmm light sunmoon eclipse da dum_ that somehow sound like they should be the next release from the album, and when he comes you're kissing him.

...

Frankly, you're a bit surprised that you haven't been turned onto your stomach yet. You thought that was how it was usually done.

But when Chris hops onto your lax body and you get to look at the wicked burn in his dark eyes, you're glad to be spread out on your back. _bet you thought we forgot about you,_ he teases, and you open your mouth to say something snotty back but only hear yourself sob, and Chris goes blurry all of a sudden.

_we didn't, infant_, Chris says, and there's something ineffably satisfied in his tone as he slides down across you, rubbing his cock against yours before slipping between your legs. You blink hurriedly and the tears clear from your eyelashes just in time for Chris to shove into you, hard, and all the tiredness evaporates from your muscles when you arch up against him.

_fuck_, Chris grunts, getting his hands into the insides of your elbows and pinning them to the bed. _fuck, justin...you know how **long**...?_

He's got you bumping against the mattress with each thrust, your body rising with his only to be slammed back down again, and you feel more vulnerable and open and _real_ than you have in years. _yeah_, you whimper. _yeah yeah chris...long time, long time._ It feels so fucking goddamn good and you're crying now for real, crying like you can't stop and really, you don't know if you can any more than you can stop your cock from jerking against Chris' belly and your fingers from plucking wildly at the sheets.

When you come, so hard that your vision blanks out for a bit, you think about how people call twenty-one the "key to life." You always thought that was some stupid Hallmark shit like how you had "Sweet Sixteen" when sixteen in actuality was kind of unspectacular and lame.

When Chris comes, howling your name, you hear the ecstacy of the emotion behind it and think that maybe people are right about twenty-one.

...

Lance was right, it turns out. You hardly remember a thing the next morning, and everybody goes back to being the way everybody always is.

But then you hear Joey laugh one night when you're half-asleep, and remember how his smile felt, bright and assuring against your collarbone.

And you listen to JC humming out some new melody or another, and remember his rapid-fire fingers playing piano along your spine.

And when you're doing an interview you hear Lance answering his own questions and remember what his mellow voice sounds like on the inside of his mouth.

And when Chris stares at you, for no reason, you remember that he doesn't tell you that he loves you, but he lets you know anyway.

...

And when you turned twenty-one, you unexpectedly started to see.


End file.
